There
is a pink balloon stuck to the village hall ceiling,
A
show of frivolity absorbing the caretaker in thought,
A
remembrance parade is about to bring a mass of feeling
Into
the hall where the pink balloon hangs, out of reach, helium wrought.
Is
the balloon given up, or is a kiddie crying and asking for it back?
Will
it stay, or sink into the massed solemnity?
Should
he stick a knife to his broom handle and give it a whack?
Is
that kind of activity covered by the hall’s indemnity?
Should
he burst the joyous bubble that shouts freedom
To
celebrate brithdays as a given right?
Or
should he let it bob and dangle over cadets to lead them
Into
remembering all the good reasons not to fight?
Sarah Miller Walters
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